Insomnia: Ghost of Christmas Past
by Damagoed
Summary: A further insight into Mycroft's childhood friend Nicholas. And more about Mycroft.  Read Chapter 40 of my story Insomnia
1. Chapter 1

For Mycroft, Christmas had always meant going home. From School, from University, from whichever Government he happened to be running at the time. It was very important to go home for Christmas. For Mycroft it was the most important pilgrimage, going home.

And for a very brief few years, it had meant going home with Nicholas.

Nicholas Garrideb. Mycroft's best friend.

Nicholas, like Mycroft and Sherlock, was very clever. But unlike the Holmes boys, from an early age he seemed to have decided not to let that intelligence get in the way of having fun. Nicholas was always smiling. Even when Mycroft had walked into him and knocked him to the floor the first time they met, aged ten at prep school. Mycroft apologised half heartedly, thinking he really had better things to do and then had been stopped in his tracks by the smiling boy who was sat on the floor surrounded by his spilled books and a quantity of Liquorice Allsorts.

He was the most beautiful boy Mycroft had ever seen. He was small, and slightly chubby with angelic strawberry blond curls, and bright green eyes. Had Mycroft been older he would have understood the strange tingling feeling as he held out his hand to help the boy up. The boy didn't seem to be in the slightest bit annoyed that he and his sweets had been knocked flying.

"Well I would offer you a Liquorice Allsort but..." And they had both burst out laughing. Mycroft had presented Nicholas with a large bag of sweets every Christmas as a reminder.

And when Nicholas had mentioned that his parents were overseas and he would have to stay at school for the Holidays, Mycroft had insisted he come home with him. They had five Christmases together. Just five. But Mycroft remembered every single one.

The first one when Nicholas had met Sherlock and Sherlock had been so taken aback by Nicholas holding a conversation with him he had forgotten to be obnoxious. And they had spent two weeks laughing and playing and generally having fun.

The second one when Sherlock had been sent to his room for some unforgivable outrage on Christmas Morning and it was Nicholas who had managed to get him calmed down enough to sit at the table and not ruin Christmas dinner for everyone. He'd earned Mummy's eternal gratitude that year.

The third one, when Mycroft had broken his arm sliding down the stairs on a tea tray and Nicholas had hugged him all the way to the hospital in the back of the car. And then told everyone at school Mycroft broke his arm heroically defending Nicholas from a gang of robbers. And somehow everyone at school had believed him.

The fourth Christmas when they spent all day making a giant Easter Island Snowman in the gardens for Sherlock, because he had mumps and wasn't allowed to play outside. And they had held hands in the garden when they thought no one was watching.

And the last Christmas. They hadn't known it was going to be the last one. They were both fifteen. Becoming painfully aware of an attraction for each other that was more than just being best friends, and late at night, in Mycroft's room Nicholas had kissed him. And then they had taken their pyjamas off and lay next to one another, naked, because they had no idea what else to do.

And then there had been no more Christmases. Just half a summer that had ended with the funeral of a Sixteen year old boy.

Mycroft always went home for Christmas. And he always took a bag of Liquorice Allsorts with him. And on Christmas night he would lay naked in the bed in his childhood bedroom and close his eyes and wish that Nicholas was still alive. And sometimes, just sometimes he thought he could feel the ghost of those past Christmases lying next to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**(For Pin. Merry Christmas from Johnny & Frank)**

That last Christmas, as Mycroft always thought of it, had been the best. Nothing before or since had even come close to matching it. That one perfect moment in his life that he knew if he lived forever he would never find an equal to. It had started out the same way every Christmas did, with them coming home. The car swung in through the gates and up the driveway and the pink sandstone towers of the old hall loomed in to view. And they got out of the car and were met by Mummy, fussing about how Mycroft had grown, yet again, which would mean another trip to the tailors. At fifteen, nearly sixteen, he was already the tallest boy in his house, unlike Nick, who was the shortest boy in their year. But it didn't matter.

And then Sherlock appeared, slightly hesitant and sulky, he was not getting on well at his new prep school. But his face changed completely as he ran to greet Nick. Later on Mycroft would come to realise just how close their tastes in men were, but at the time they were children, and it meant nothing. And that was how the holidays always began.

This holiday had shown no signs of deviating from the normal pattern of games and general festive silliness. Presents had been handed out. Carols sung, Christmas dinner eaten and Mycroft and Nicholas had been excused to bed a little before eleven.

Only there was something slightly different that Mycroft had not quite been able to put his finger on. Perhaps on the first night when they were getting ready for bed and Mycroft had been reading and Nick had sneaked out to take Sherlock a book he had promised him. When Nick returned and began to strip off in front of the flickering glow of the fire, Mycroft had watched. Of course he shared a dorm with Nick at school, and changing rooms, and had seen him undress hundreds of times before. But tonight was different. Because it was just the two of them. And Mycroft had secretly taken notice of every curve and angle of Nick's body. The way that his shoulders had just started to broaden, and the dusting of gingery blond hair all over his chest and belly. Mycroft felt a strange sensation in his stomach. A warm, tickly feeling. And then Nick had thrown a pillow at him.

On Christmas Night, of that Last Christmas, the tickly feeling was back. Along with something else. Something Mycroft did not understand.

"Hey Mikey. Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes. I've got something for you." And like an idiot he shut them. And felt the soft brush of lips against his. He could taste coffee and Christmas pudding, and smiles. He reached out, eyes still closed and pulled Nick closer.

They were shaking, both boys terrified that they would be discovered at any moment, even though the door had a lock. Terrified of the absolute certainty that what they were doing was very bad. And at the same time wanting to keep doing it. They had slowly undressed, until they were both standing in just their underwear, those bloody awful school issue white things. And then Nick had removed his, slowly, shyly. Like the rest of him, his erection had been perfect. And when they were both naked they had just stared at each other. Of course they had read books about it. Laughed about it with their friends. But faced with the literal naked truth of it, neither knew what to do.

They had fallen onto the bed and lay pressed against each other for the whole night. When Mycroft had woken up the following morning, with the warm weight of Nick pushing on to him and a warm sticky fluid covering both their stomachs Mycroft knew everything was going to be all right. They both wanted the same thing.

"Nick?" Mycroft was still trying to come to terms with the strange feeling in his groin.

"Mikey?" A huge sleepy smile.

"Is it okay?"

"It's all fine Mikey."

"Really?"

"Yes. I want to spend the rest of my life with you Mycroft. Can I do that?"

"Yes." Mycroft thought he was about to explode. He had never felt so happy in his life. Before or since.


	3. Chapter 3

What if Nicholas had lived? It was a question that Mycroft often found himself asking in the early hours of the morning, when he returned exhausted from late night meetings with the Prime Minister. Or when he had to be up whilst it was still dark, in order to prevent another war. Every time he was alone it seemed he asked that question. He found himself alone a lot these days.

Once, in what was a complete abuse of position he had a photograph of Nicholas put through the MI6 ageing programme by the IT department. Just to see what Nick would look like now. He would be five foot seven, muscular build, but with a little bit of a pot belly. His hair would be thinning on the top, and he'd probably have it cut very short. There would be the odd line on his face and the beginning of crow's feet around his eyes where they crinkled as he laughed. In other words he was still gorgeous.

He had the picture of this computer generated version of Nicholas in his watch. No one knew. No one ever asked Mycroft the time. And in a way it was fitting that the picture resided in the gold case. Because it served as a reminder to Mycroft of how very precious time was. You always thought you had far more than you really did.

And sometimes Mycroft played a little game in his head, where he would imagine what life would be like with Nicholas. And sometimes this game would spill out into reality. The house he lived in for example, he had chosen because it was the sort of house Nick would have liked. The same went for a lot of the furniture, the paintings, even the coffee cups. And then there was the locked room. Mycroft was sure Sherlock would wet himself at the chance to get inside the locked room. Upstairs. End of the corridor. Nick's room. Because even if you lived with someone it was good to have your own space.

Mycroft had a few things left from when he had been asked to pack up Nick's possessions. After he died. Nick's mother had told Mycroft to take whatever he liked, she had known they were friends. But no one had realised quite how cruel it was to ask Mycroft to place everything that Nick had owned into his school trunk. It was like having to bury him all over again. Mycroft had Nick's school scarf which if you breathed very deeply still had the faint smell of Hai-Karate about it. He had Nick's English book, with some very questionable poems written in a spidery hand. And a dilapidated Giraffe called Wordsworth, who Nick always claimed reminded him of Mycroft. They were all in the locked room. Like a shrine.

Every so often, when the silence of the house got too oppressive Mycroft would unlock the door, and wander around the room, filled with Nick's things. Or at least the things Mycroft had bought for him over the years. Tailored Suits, Monogrammed Shirts and silk boxer shorts he would never wear. Medical journals and text books he would never read. DVDs he would never watch. Because he was dead. And somehow the room served as a better reminder to Mycroft of that painful fact than the cold marble headstone he went to see at least once a month.

Mycroft knew it wasn't healthy. He knew how much mileage Sherlock would get from it if he ever found out. He knew it made no difference what he bought and put in the room. And he knew that the dead stayed dead. But he didn't Know what else he could do.


	4. Chapter 4

It was late. He'd finally got home after what had shown promise to be an all nighter with the US President and the Foreign Secretary. And as usual he was greeted by the cold silence of his empty house in Kensington. Silence really could be deafening sometimes. Mycroft put the kettle on and set about making tea. It was whilst he was distracted by his phone ringing that he lost concentration and walked straight into the open cupboard door. Caught himself quite badly on the edge, right in his temple. The pain was excruciating. He swore. Several words that usually never passed his lips, then realised that the Queen's Equerry was on the other end of the phone. He assumed Simon would have heard the words before. It was inevitable if you spent any length of time near the Duke of Edinburgh. He apologised and hoped that it would be something he could sort out over the phone. He had a splitting head ache and was seeing double.

Mycroft woke up to the very welcome, but wholly unfamiliar sensation of a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist and someone's persistent erection prodding him in the thigh. As Mycroft tried to extricate himself the arms gripped a little tighter, almost possessively and the erection changed course towards his buttocks. For a split second, a rather horrible split second at that, Mycroft thought he had somehow managed to end up in bed with John Watson. But as his eyes focussed properly he realised the person he was in bed with was most certainly not his brother's friend.

Mycroft was currently in bed with a man roughly the same age as him, and from what he could tell the man was broad shouldered and not very tall. His hair was thinning, and had been cropped close to his scalp, yet still managed to be untidy due to a very obvious double crown. In the early morning sunlight streaming in through the chink in the curtain, the hair shone like red gold. Obviously from the manicured nails and the well developed muscles he went to the gym and looked after himself, and didn't do manual work. He was also fond of his food if the soft belly pushing against Mycroft was anything to go by. And then he opened his eyes and smiled. And Mycroft knew. And Mycroft realised that this was nothing but a rather lovely, rather cruel dream. In which he could almost feel, almost smell, almost taste what could have been.

"Good Morning Mikey." The arms squeezed him tighter.

"Nick?"

"Who were you expecting? Pierce Brosnan? Sorry."

"Nick?"

"Yes love?" Mycroft pushed a hand against Nick's chest. He felt warm, and solid. And real.

"You're alive."

"I hope so. If I'm not then we're both dead. What's the matter? Did you have a nightmare?" The door of the bedroom was pushed open and a large, black, furry Labrador slinked in.

"Baskeville! How many times? Get the hell out." Nick hurled a slipper at the dog, which made a hasty exit.

"Baskeville? A dog? Where am I?"

"At home." Nick was looking concerned.

"I live with you?"

"Yes. We've lived together since we left University. Mikey are you winding me up?"

"You didn't die? And I live with you. And we have a dog?"

"Die? Mycroft you're scaring me now. I knew we should have gone to the hospital last night when you hit your head on that bloody cupboard. John was right."

"John?"

"John Watson. From St. Bart's? He was here for dinner last night." Nick began checking Mycroft's head.

"Sherlock's friend John?" And the last traces of colour drained from Nicholas Garrideb's face.

"Mycroft." He said it softly. "Sherlock died nearly thirty years ago. He drowned. In the swimming pool. Don't you remember?"


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft had eliminated the impossible: That he had dropped through the cracks into some parallel universe. He was now left with several improbable alternatives. He was asleep and dreaming. He was dead and this was some kind of punishment. Somehow Nicholas had lived and Sherlock had died, and the past twenty eight years had been a figment of his imagination. He had amnesia and this was his brains way of filling in the blanks. All were equally unsatisfactory. But one of them must be the truth.

He had just made it to the bathroom when Nick had told him about Sherlock. And as soon as he had stopped vomiting and splashed cold water on his face he wished he hadn't bothered. The face in the mirror looking back at him had his china blue eyes and gingery stubble, the eyes red rimmed from crying. But the owner of the face in the mirror couldn't possibly be him. And then he thought how much Sherlock would have laughed. Mycroft was fat, his belly hanging over the tight waistband of his pyjamas. Sherlock would have wet himself. If he had been there. If he was alive.

So in this place he found himself in Mycroft had lost his brother and gained about sixty pounds. Interesting. He took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom, hoping that the world and his backside would have somehow snapped back to normal. Nick was sat up in bed reading the Lancet with the black Labrador from earlier watching him with an adoring expression on its face. The dog regarded Mycroft curiously for a moment, before totally ignoring him.

"I've asked John to call round, just to check you over."

"You're a Doctor. Why can't you do it?" Amnesia or no his powers of deduction were still intact.

"You know the rules on treating family members. The GMC would have a field day."

"Do i count as a family member?"

"I think so." Nick wiggled his right hand at Mycroft, who immediately noticed the gold band on his ring finger. A gold band exactly like the one Mycroft was currently wearing. Somewhere downstairs there was the sound of a knock. "That'll be John. Just lay down. Baskeville, come on boy." The dog regarded Mycroft coolly once more before gambolling out after Nick.

John Watson was barely recognisable in this reality. Really it was only the determined expression on his face and the dark blue-green eyes that said it was the same man. He was skin and bone, seemingly held up right by willpower and the steel cane he leant heavily on. Mycroft looked at him intently as John shone a light into his eyes and tested his reflexes. It was as though someone had taken the real John Watson and burnt out his heart, leaving just the shell behind. John's right hand shook slightly.

"There's no sign of concussion. All your motor functions seem normal. Nothing to worry about. But if you experience any numbness, tingling, double vision, anything unusual, call me straight away."

"Thanks John. You look tired. You okay?" The adult Nick had the same easy, concerned manner his teenage self had possessed.

"Hell of a night. The Five Pips Bomber has had another one. Some poor guy got turned inside out in Piccadilly Circus. They're still picking bits of him off Eros."

"Same as before?"

"Yes. Stupid cryptic phone call using a stooge. The Scotland yard boys are running round like blue arsed flies trying to work it all out. Deadline arrives. Bang. LeStrade's tearing his hair out. And I'm trying to do an autopsy on 60 kilos of dog meat that used to be someone's son."

Mycroft's eyes widened. Obviously in this world, Moriarty was still playing his little game. Only Sherlock wasn't there to stop him.


	6. Chapter 6

The reality he was currently inhabiting, whatever it was, had mercifully kept the architecture the same, at least Mycroft could navigate his way around the house without too much inconvenience. The house was in fact, pretty much as it always was, just more cluttered and chaotic. And filled with dog. Mycroft wasn't sure what was troubling him most, the civil partnership they had obviously had, if the "Wedding" photos in the hallway were anything to go by. (And Nick did look truly amazing in that dark blue frock coat.) Or the fact that they had a dog. He was convinced that in no version of his reality had there ever been mention of a dog. But the house was the same. Even the picture above the mantelpiece in the lounge. The one Mycroft had seen in Sotheby's and paid rather a lot for. It was all there. He wondered about the locked room. What would that be like?

One thing that was different was his clothes. Mycroft looked a little dubiously at the clothes laid out on the bed for him. Even if this was a different reality he saw no reason why he should wear jeans. Faded blue jeans and some kind of casual black shirt at that. Still, it was what Nick had put out for him. The shirt was actually quite nice once he got used to it. The jeans were too tight around the waist. Mycroft could see that was going to be a running theme. And for some inexplicable reason his boxer shorts had Mr. Greedy on them. Well maybe not that inexplicable.

Mycroft climbed up the stairs to the top story of the house. To the locked room. So many times he had thought about clearing out that room. Throwing away all of the things in it. All the things he had bought for his dead friend. He couldn't quite use the term lover, or partner, or even boyfriend, because there had never been time for that. And here he was, in some never ending dream, hoping that he was dead, because then they would have all the time in the world. And not caring that it meant the sacrifice of his brother and being able to see his feet. Nick was up on the top floor, but not in the room Mycroft had been expecting. Nick was in one of the rooms on the left hand side of the corridor. The room was filled with books and papers and microscopes, and taking pride of place on a shelf, Wordsworth the Giraffe. So what was in that locked room?

The key was on Mycroft's watch chain. It turned in the lock easily and as the door opened Mycroft realised he should have known what was going to be in there. Books that had never been read, DVDs still in their wrappers, a microscope gleaming on a bench with a chemistry set and a frog dissection kit next to it. A skull sat morosely on a shelf. Clothes hanging up neatly on a rail. Suits tailored for someone much taller and more elegantly built than Nick. And a beautiful Belstaff coat with a blue scarf. Of course. Nick's shrine had been replaced with Sherlock. The other lost boy.

"Mikey? Are you okay?" Nick was standing behind him. Barefoot in Jeans and a pale blue shirt.

"Nick. I don't remember any of this. I want to. But I really don't remember it." Nick nodded slowly.

"What do you remember?" And Mycroft realised how ridiculous his next sentence would sound.

"I remember you dying. I remember burying you. And spending every day missing you. Sherlock didn't die. You did."

"How did I die?"

"You had a heart defect no one knew about. You were playing badminton and you collapsed. I wasn't there. I never got to say goodbye to you. You just died." Nick was quiet for a moment.

"Sherlock drowned in a swimming accident. A boy called Carl Powers pushed him in to the deep end. He didn't realise Sherlock couldn't swim. He dived in once he realised Sherlock wasn't just messing about. We did CPR on the side of the pool, but by the time the paramedics arrived his heart had been stopped for fifteen minutes. It was too late."

"What happened to Carl Powers?" Mycroft was beginning to see how everything seemed to be horribly linked.

"He died of an epileptic fit a couple of years later. None of it was anyone's fault Mycroft." Nick reached up and stroked Mycroft's face. "And if it were as simple as me dying and Sherlock living, I'd do it in a heartbeat Mikey. I miss him too."

The kiss was electric, charged with thirty years of repressed passion. Mycroft couldn't help himself. He knew he should be mourning his brother or trying to stop Moriarty, but all he could think of was making up for all those empty years, even if none of it were real.

"I'm glad you remember that you love me Mikey." Nick mumbled through a mouthful of lips.

"That's the only thing I don't think I've ever forgotten." Moriarty was just going to have to wait.


	7. Chapter 7

When Mycroft woke up, he kept his eyes tightly closed. He could smell the long forgotten familiar scent of soap and liquorice and citrussy aftershave that was Nick's smell. He could feel the soft breaths on his arm; feel the liberal covering of soft furry hair on Nick's chest. Mycroft knew if he opened his eyes he would just see more things that would end up breaking his heart. And he knew it was a heart that had been badly repaired over the years. Like an old vase. You could glue it back together, but if you smashed it again it would break around the breaks and be destroyed. However Mycroft also knew that sometimes you just had to let it break anyway. He opened his eyes, smiling briefly at the memory of making love with Nick in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Nick rolled over, beaming him one of those cheeky smiles. Mycroft felt his heart creak a little.

The telephone on the bedside table was ringing. Nick answered it, reaching an arm out from under Mycroft.

"Dr. Garrideb." He paused and listened, the smile disappearing from his face. "Yes, of course Inspector, I'll be right there." There was silence for a few moments before Nick spoke again.

"That was Inspector LeStrade. The Five Pips Bomber has taken another hostage. He wonders if you'd be able to help?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You. That deductive head of yours. They're sure they must have missed something. They need a genius." Sherlock always said Mycroft's powers of reasoning were far greater than his own, usually said in conjunction with a sly comment about his weight and it being proportional. And Sherlock wasn't here.

"I know who it is. It's a man who works in the IT department called Jim. He's using some sort of alias but his real name is James Moriarty. He's a self styled master criminal."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because he's done it before. And somehow, he's being allowed to do it again." Mycroft looked at the expression on Nick's face. Looking for that flicker that said he thought Mycroft was crazy. Only it wasn't there. Just that same look that said I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

"Okay. I'll let LeStrade know."

"No don't do that. Get dressed. We have to go somewhere."

"Where?" Nick was pulling on his jeans.

"The swimming pool where Sherlock died."


	8. Chapter 8

Nick had patted Baskeville on the head. The big black Labrador looked a little put out it wasn't being taken for a walk.

"Do you think we should let LeStrade know where we going?" Nick asked as they got in the car.

"You haven't asked me why yet." Mycroft was surprised Nick could drive.

"Why would I ask you that?"

"Because this morning you thought I had concussion or amnesia, and now in the middle of a murder case I've juts said we're going to a swimming pool completely unconnected to anything other than my brother's death. You're just humouring me aren't you?"

"If I say no you won't believe me. If I say yes then you'll get upset. How can I possibly answer that question? Do you want to go to the pool or not. You've never been wrong before."

"Just like that. You'll just come with me?"

"I love you." And then the mood was spoilt by Nick's phone ringing. He listened, his face turning pale and angry.

"Nick?"

"Jim from IT. Just as you said. Doesn't exist. They've found Dr Anderson bound and gagged in one of the mortuary fridges. And John Watson didn't show up for his duty shift this morning." John. Of course. It would be John.

"If we go we will find John strapped in to an explosive device. And there will be people with guns, who have been ordered to shoot. We could die."

"Do you love me Mikey?"

"Of course I do. I've always loved you."

"Swimming pool then?" Mycroft pulled his seatbelt on. That was too bloody tight as well.

The pool was in darkness. Only the emergency lights switched on. The reflection from the water casting eerie green dancing men over the tiled walls. Mycroft had been very surprised when he had put his hand into the pocket of his coat, not his smart Crombie overcoat, but a dark green waxed jacket, and had discovered the gun. Not just any gun. A Walther PPK. How very James Bond. But surprised or not his hand was now curled around it. Ready to shoot. There was a strange tapping, scraping noise, and he turned himself and the gun to face it. John Watson. Leaning heavily on his walking stick. Wearing a green parka. One of those with the big fluffy hood. Mycroft knew what it was concealing.

"Surprise?" Mycroft had heard this before.

"Shut up. James Moriarty. Why don't you come out here and face me yourself." The red fire flies of the snipers guns moved from John to Mycroft and back uncertainly. Mycroft knew there would be one buzzing on Nick as well. And then the odious little man in his snappy suit appeared and it took all of Mycroft's self control not to shoot him.

"Oh. And there was me expecting Inspector LeStrade. But this is better than I could have hoped for. And here. How ironic. I never liked Sherlock. Little know it all. Always got better marks than me. And it was so easy to get Carl to push him in. And then I was top of the class. Oh and Nicholas, how heroic you were diving in to save him, and trying to resuscitate him. Because after all he was your boyfriends little brother."

"Mikey. Just shoot him."

"He's a fiery little thing isn't he Mikey? Is he like that in bed? Does he know about your watch? I bet he doesn't."

Mycroft felt his watch in the pocket of his jeans. It hadn't occurred to him to open it. He could guess what was inside. No doubt it would be a computer generated image of Sherlock. Aged from a school photo.

"All those people dead. Why?"

"Because it's a game. A great game. It's called I'm cleverer than you."

"Really?"

"I got you to come here. And now here we stand. And your best plan is to point that little gun at me." Mycroft could see John Watson inching towards Moriarty, painfully, but determined.

"It's alright Doctor Watson. That won't do any good. "John stopped. "And I think you've already given enough for your country. Time to give up James. The armed response unit will be here soon. And if you kill me it's not just murder. Its treason. " Mycroft really hoped he remembered everything correctly.

"Oh well done. Let's up the stakes." He ripped John's parka off to expose the wires and explosives. The red dots focused on Mycroft and Nick. "Take off the explosives Johnny boy." John carefully removed his semtex vest and lowered it gently to the floor.

"And now what?"

"I will burn the heart out of you!" Moriarty glanced at Nick as he said it.

"Wrong thing to say." Mycroft's hand was no longer shaking as he aimed at the explosives on the floor. "You can kill me. You can kill them. You can kill everyone. But I will tell you a secret. You can't kill love. Not here. Not in any number of other worlds. Lovers be lost. Love shall not. Dylan Thomas in case you were wondering."

"And you really expect me to believe you are going to sacrifice them all. And yourself. You would never dare. You see Mycroft, you're a coward. Hiding behind all of that secrecy and cloak and dagger stuff. Sending other people out to do your dirty work. But you never get your hands dirty yourself do you? What's your final solution to my final problem?"

"You really are a very tedious little man."

"And you're going to die. That's what people do."

"There are far worse things than dying." Mycroft knew he was crying as he looked first at the serious face of John Watson. The soldier waiting patiently to face his own death with timeless dignity. And then he looked at Nick. His Nicholas. What he had spent every waking and sleeping moment thinking about since he was sixteen. And now he was going to destroy it. He could walk away. Take Nick with him. He began to lower the gun. And Moriarty started to laugh. A high pitched scream of triumph.

Nick moved so quickly. His hand was over Mycroft's. The green eyes looking into the blue. Mycroft's other hand clenched around his watch.

"I really did want to spend the rest of my life with you." And then there was an explosion that threw Mycroft off his feet and he was falling backwards.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft was laying down. On a bed. To his left something was hissing, beeping. And someone was holding his hand. Mycroft knew he was going to have to open his eyes. He was going to have to see where he had woken up this time. He choked. There was tube down his throat. The hand left his and moved to the back of his head as the tube was removed. The hand's owner making reassuring noises. Male. Obviously medical. Strong. Hands average size. Mycroft opened his eyes, clinging to the desperate shred of hope that somehow he would wake up and it would be Nick stood beside his bed.

John Watson smiled down at him. His eyes had dark circles under them from lack of sleep, but otherwise, this was John Watson as he should be, chunky and solid. Mycroft was back in what he thought of as the real world.

"Sherlock?" his voice was croaky and sore.

"He's gone to get coffee. He was driving me mad."

"He's alive?"

"Unless he's managed to piss someone in the cafe off."

"He's alive." And that meant Nick was dead. Still. Again.

"You knocked yourself out on your kitchen cupboard. But unfortunately you were on your back. You stopped breathing before the ambulance got there. It was touch and go for a while."

"Ambulance?"

"Yes. Anonymous 999 call. Sherlock's got recordings of it. You've got two of the biggest men I've ever seen in my life outside the door right now. There's some question whether it was an attempt on your life."

"By hitting me on the head with a cupboard door?"

"I didn't say it was a sensible question."

"You need to listen to the recording Mycroft." Sherlock was stood in the doorway. His grey eyes were narrowed into slits.

"He needs to rest." And the enduring look of quiet determination on John's face dared them to argue.

Xxx

Even though none of it had been real, Mycroft couldn't help but feel as though he had lost Nick for a second time. He understood that in that moment of desperation when he had to choose between pulling the trigger and killing everyone, or letting a dangerous criminal go to kill innocent people, in that moment Nick had simply chosen for him. Nick had pulled the trigger. Nick had shouldered all the blame.

Mycroft looked at his face in the mirror. His thin face, with its china blue eyes and gingery stubble, and a neat row of stitches above his eye. He looked down at his slender waist and his rather boring black silk boxer shorts. He wandered around his tidy, empty, dog free house. Just because something wasn't real, it didn't mean you couldn't miss it. Mycroft laughed to himself. How ironic that it was only as he lay un-breathing, dead, that he could find a few moments of happiness. Perhaps that had almost been a glimpse of heaven. Perhaps the dead didn't stay dead after all.

Sherlock found his elder brother in deep contemplation in the study.

"Mycroft. I've bought the recordings." Sherlock indicated the laptop under his arm.

"Do I really have to listen to them?"

"Yes. You really do. Because I don't understand them."

_OPERATOR: Emergency Services. Which Service Please?_

_CALLER: Ambulance please._

_OPERATOR: One moment._

_AMBULANCE: Hello Ambulance service._

_CALLER: There's been an accident at 23 Coniston Gardens, Kensington. A man called Mycroft Holmes has knocked himself out. He's going to stop breathing. _

_AMBULANCE: Hello? Hello?_

But the line was dead.

They sat in silence. Neither wanting to be the one to speak the obvious, painful, impossible truth. Eventually it was Sherlock who spoke.

"I've tried to analyse this. Scotland Yard have put it through every software programme they have, and it's genuine. I have tried to eliminate the impossible. But this time I can't. The only explanation is Impossible."

"What does John think?"

"He just spouts some fluffy sentimental rubbish about more things in heaven and earth. Idiot."

Mycroft played the call again. And again. And with each playing of it he became more and more convinced that he was listening to a sixteen year old Nicholas Garrideb calling an ambulance to save Mycroft's life. And that was impossible.


	10. Chapter 10

He stood in the Churchyard. The warm evening buzzing with fireflies and lawnmowers. The late sun was still warming the wall and a gentle breeze was fluttering the leaves on the Oak tree. Mycroft looked down at the white marble. Outside the Churchyard his driver was waiting for him. The slick, modern car, with its tinted windows and bomb proofing looking ridiculously out of place in the Village That Time Forgot as Mycroft referred to Midsomer Wenlock.

He sat down on the grave, not caring if the grass and dry earth ruined his suit or not. He could always buy another suit. He pressed play. The recording of the emergency call. He must have listened to it a thousand times, perhaps more. And every time he became less certain and more convinced of what he was hearing. A voice beyond the grave. And yet he was here at the grave, and there was nothing.

The stitches had healed, leaving a neat scar that would fade to a thin white line above his eyebrow, barely noticeable. John Watson had missed his vocation as a plastic surgeon, or perhaps a tailor? The blinding headaches had subsided. The scans had all come back clear. Mycroft had been told he was healed, everything back to normal. Only nothing was ever going to be normal again. Every time he went into the locked room, every time he opened his watch, every time he looked at Sherlock. Every time he pressed play. Every time he knew he wasn't normal. His life wasn't normal. Nothing ever had been or ever would be.

He knew he was crying now. A tall thin man, all long neck and legs and gingery brown hair, like a Giraffe, sat on a grave sobbing. If any of his employees could see him now. If Sherlock could see him. That carefully constructed Ice Cold reputation would be melted to nothing. Nothing. Like the rest of his life. He reached into his pocket. The envelopes. All neatly addressed in Mycroft's copperplate handwriting. It was all settled. Mycroft wasn't a man that left any loose ends. He looked at the headstone once more, and then at his right hand and the thin gold band on his ring finger. The ring that told the whole world, very subtly of course, that he was a widower.

Finally he looked at the knife in his hand. Apparently it was quite a nice way to die. You bled, you slowly lost consciousness. You didn't wake up. Logic told him that there was nothing afterwards. His long buried heart told him he didn't care. Even if none of it was real. He just did not care to watch the rest of the world going on around him. The knife slashed easily through his skin. He never realised just how red blood actually was in quantity. Bright red blood that began to stain the grass and earth dark. There was a brief moment of panic. And then Mycroft noticed for the first time, just behind the white headstone, close against the wall. A smaller Headstone, older, faded. He smiled as he read it.

"HERE LIES MY HOUND: BASKEVILLE. FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH"

It really was going to be an awfully big adventure. Mycroft slumped forwards, still smiling and never heard the fast running feet, or someone's outraged cry of:

"You utter selfish bastard."


	11. Chapter 11

"Idiot. Bloody stupid idiot." Someone was shouting. Someone was holding him tightly. Someone was crying,

"Out of the way." Another voice, clinical, calm. A hand crushing his wrist. Holding some material to it. Pressure. "Call an ambulance."

And then a pair of green eyes looking down at him.

"Mikey. It doesn't work like that. Sorry. But it just doesn't." And blackness. Nothing. None of it was real.

Xxxx

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he had called to see Mycroft and the house had been empty. Not just empty. Abandoned. Everything tidied away. Mycroft was usually neat, but this was the wrong kind of neatness. It was oppressive and unnerving.

Sherlock searched the house, all the rooms the same. All tidy. Nothing to see. Nothing to read. Sherlock could never read his brother. It annoyed him. Drove him mad that he had to guess. He carried on to the top floor of the house, at one point the servant's rooms he supposed. A long corridor with tidy rooms on each side. And then he noticed the door at the end of the corridor. The door that was always locked. Only this time the key was in the lock.

Sherlock knew he needed to walk away. To forget about that door. He was certain he was not going to like what was on the other side. He had often joked with John that Mycroft probably had a hideously disfigured portrait of himself locked away somewhere in the attic, which reflected his evil inner self. He needed to walk away. He almost did. Until the door which was quite definitely closed, swung open. And for the first time in his adult life, Sherlock was truly afraid. And when he entered the room, he knew why. There was not portrait of Dorian Gray. What was in there was infinitely worse.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed as his brain slowly overloaded. He needed John. He needed an anchor to the world because he was certain any moment that the laws of Physics would stop working and they would all be thrown into space. He heard John's feet pounding up the stairs.

"What's wrong?" John had expected to find Sherlock standing over his brother's lifeless body, but instead found him fixed in the doorway to one of the attic rooms. Inside the room was pleasant, with a neatly made bed, bookshelves, pictures. John noticed a sarcastic looking Giraffe perched on a copy of Grey's anatomy. But surely there was nothing to make someone scream.

"Sherlock? What is it? What's wrong? It's just a room."

"No John. It isn't. It is not just a room. This is Nick's room." Sherlock gestured to the fluffy bathrobe on the bed. The embroidery on it: NJG. "My brother has a room in his house filled with things he has bought for his dead friend."

"I suppose it's his way of dealing with it. I'm not saying it's healthy."

"John, Mycroft left the door unlocked. He doesn't need to keep it a secret anymore."

"Yes but Mycroft would never... would he?"

"He tried before. The Christmas when he was seventeen. He got really drunk on Vodka and had to go to hospital and have his stomach pumped. I was the only one who knew he'd taken pills as well. I noticed them in the vomit all over his bedroom. No one else did." Sherlock said it flatly. "Everyone thinks he's so calm and collected. So cold. But he's not."

"Well where will he be?"

"There's only one place he'll be John." And Sherlock was running, taking the stairs three at a time.

Xxx

The blackness gave way to bright, painful light. Flooding in from everywhere. His head swam a little and he tried to sit up. Only to be pushed back onto the pillows by a gentle but firm hand. Yet again, John Watson standing vigil. He really was a good man.

"Steady Mycroft. Don't try to move, you might feel a little nauseous." Mycroft raised his arm to see a large bandage covering it. "Yes. Not one of my better jobs I'm afraid."

"Sherlock?"

"He's okay."

"I'm truly sorry John. But..." John blinked, remembering that evening before he met Sherlock when he had sat in his tiny bedsit with his service revolver in his mouth. He'd been too much of a coward to pull the trigger.

"It's okay Mycroft. You don't have to talk about it now. Or ever. You should. But you don't have to."

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Sherlock worked it out. Because of the key in the lock. Of the room. Nicholas's room."

"What? Where's my watch?"

"Pocket watch? Hang on." John reached across to the bedside table and handed Mycroft the watch.

"The key is on my watch chain." He held up the chain, the gold key dangling from it and glinting in the light. "And there's only one key."

Mycroft clicked his watch open and looked at Nick's picture smiling back at him.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft had discharged himself. Unable to cope with the sympathetic nurses and the hospital Psychiatrist who were all so bloody nice. He didn't want people to be nice to him. He wanted people to treat him like the idiotic bastard he was. He didn't want Ice Cream and extra helpings of Shepherd's Pie because they said he was too thin. He wanted someone to punch him in the face and make him bleed. Someone like Sherlock. Whilst John had visited, and it was John who had collected him from the hospital with a resigned _"It's against my better judgement but you're going to do it anyway." _ Sherlock had stayed away.

"He's upset. He doesn't know what to say. To be honest with you he's disappointed." You could always rely on John Watson's absolute honesty. It was one of his most brilliant qualities.

"With me?"

"Yes. But more with himself." And his keen analysis of humanity.

"Himself?"

"I think he feels he should have reacted better. I think he feels that he let you down. You've always been there for him. Always cleared up his mess. And he couldn't do the same for you."

"So he's staying away?"

"I don't think he knows what to do."

Xxxx

Mycroft sat in the attic room. On the bed. Surrounded by Nick's things. Wondering if he should clear out this room. Throw it all away. It made no difference to Nick either way, he was certain. The door to the room had been locked when they had returned to the house. No key. There was only one key. So how could Sherlock and John have seen the inside? If his brother had picked the lock, Mycroft would have found the door unlocked on his return. And John had been quite certain that there had been a key in the door. And then there was the bathrobe. John had described it in detail. Fluffy. Black. NJG in gold embroidery on it. Which had been found hanging on the back of the door, not on the bed. It was all impossible.

He curled up on the bed. Hugging Wordsworth. His arm still sore where the stitches were healing. John was right. It was not one of his neater jobs. The operation having been performed in the back of an ambulance bumping its way through leafy country lanes. He'd even managed to do a blood transfusion on the way. Although how he'd managed to...?

And then it hit Mycroft hard. The only way John could have known which blood group he was. The only way John could have got blood in the back of an ambulance. Sherlock. The brothers shared the same rare blood group. Quite elementary when you thought about it.

He hugged the Giraffe a little tighter. Without the blood he would be dead. Without Sherlock he would be dead. Without him Sherlock would be dead. Without Nick, they would both be dead. It seemed Nick would always find a way of saving him. Saving them. Mycroft relaxed into the pillows, sometimes eliminating the impossible wasn't such a good idea.


	13. Chapter 13

Dear Nick

It's been nearly thirty years since we last spoke and so much has gone on I don't know where to start. I don't want to start but my psychiatrist's watching me and she thinks this is a good idea. She scares me. You know the way I was always nervous with girls. Well I'm even more nervous with her.

The first thing I want to say is that I am so sorry. I should have been there. I meant to be there. I don't know what happened but I remember you saying you were going to play badminton and me saying I was just finishing the chapter in my book and I would be out later. I remember Professor Bell coming and fetching me. I remember the ambulance arriving. And all I remember after that is everything hurting.

And all I remember after that is everything being numb. I remember feeling cold. Then feeling nothing. Because you were gone.

I often wonder what you would have been like if you had grown up. I expect you would have been exactly the same. Everyone would have loved you. They would have all been so proud of you. Actually I know what you would have looked like. I got someone at work to put your picture through a computer aging programme. You will be pleased to know you didn't go bald. But you did get a pot belly. Too many liquorice allsorts I guess.

Sherlock is doing okay. He's a detective now. The world's only consulting detective. You would get such a big kick out of what he's doing. He's got a boyfriend as well. A guy called john. John is an ex army doctor and the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet. You two would have got on so well. Just like you, John is the kind of guy who never turns away from the problem. Sometimes he even looks like you. Sometimes I have to turn away. Because it hurts. It hurts so much.

They tell me that eventually if I write these letters to you I will be able to forget you. They don't understand. They don't understand that you are part of me and I will never forget you. They don't understand that I will never love anyone but you. You were my first kiss. And the only kiss that ever meant anything. And yours will be the kiss I will replay on my lips as I die.

They tell me I should move on. I don't want to move on. I want to be with you. Forever.

I know what they say about me. That I am cruel. Unfeeling. Untouched. They all call me the Iceman. Maybe they're right.

Wordsworth sends his love. So do I.

I am most sincerely yours

Mycroft Holmes.


	14. Chapter 14

The silence between them was so thick you could cut it. It was like quicksand, sucking them down and drowning them. Sherlock sat in one chair, Mycroft the other. Either side of the large fireplace in Mycroft's sitting room. The room with the expensive picture above the mantelpiece. The sturdy leather furniture, the reliable rich wallpapers and crystal decanters that told the outside world who Mycroft was. Or at least who he wanted everyone to think he was.

They sat opposite. Like bookends. But what was stacked between them wasn't books. There was the remnants of the same unhappy childhood. The sense of loss. The years of resentment. The betrayals of trust. The insults. The embarrassments. And finally the final problem. Mycroft wasn't indestructible. He was every bit as messed up as Sherlock. And Sherlock just could not forgive him for that.

The silence continued. Sherlock, pale, in his purple shirt and close fitting suit, ignoring the glass of Scotch Mycroft had poured for him. Mycroft, in jeans and a black shirt Sherlock would have never believed his brother would own, let alone wear, already on his second glass. Eventually Sherlock stood. Mycroft tilted his head up to look at his younger brother.

"Leaving so soon Sherlock?" Even his sarcasm was half hearted.

"There seems to be little point in staying. We have nothing to talk about and you are perfectly capable of getting drunk on your own. Goodnight."

"Yes. Quite."

Sherlock had made it to the end of the street when the strangest memory came to him.

_Twenty six years old. A dirty floor. Filth, broken glass, needles. The razor blade had sliced through his skin. No one would find him. No one would care. No one needed to know he existed. Then a familiar voice in the growing darkness. "Oh my God Sherlock." He was being picked up. His blood soaking into the man who was carrying him. Once the blood was gone there would be nothing but skin and bones. And when the bones were picked clean and the clean bones were gone. Nothing. There was shouting. The air smelt of antiseptic. Bright lights. And the voice again. Two voices._

"_I can't Mr Holmes. I'm very sorry. But we've already taken one pint from you."_

"_He needs more. Give him what he needs."_

"_I can't do that Sir."_

"_I think you can Doctor. I believe you can take four pints of blood from me before the effects become damaging."_

"_Sir you don't understand."_

"_No you don't understand. That is my little brother. He is all I have left. If necessary I will bleed myself dry for him with or without your help. Considering who I am there'll probably be a queue of people willing to help me do it."_

Mycroft was no longer in the sitting room. Sherlock knew exactly where he would be. The room on the top floor was softly lit. The door pushed open and the happy sadness from the room leaking into the rest of the house. Mycroft was sat on the floor. His head in his hands. Sherlock thought he might be crying.

"Mycroft. The night I ended up in Charing Cross Hospital. How did you know where I was? There's no way, even with your surveillance you could have known I was in that flat."

"How did I know?" Mycroft raised his eyes. Red and swollen with tears. "Someone told me." Mycroft stood, reached up on to a shelf and handed Sherlock a note book. The book contained a series of English Compositions written in a spidery hand, and one loose piece of paper. Sherlock read and re-read.

_**Sherlock in Trouble. 89 Leadbetter Street. Flat 2. Go now**_.

The note was written in the same hand as the English essays. Sherlock knew what the front cover of the book would say. But he read it anyway**. N J Garrideb. Elmfield House. English.**

The book fell to the floor as he put his arms around his brother's neck and sobbed.

"Mycroft I'm so sorry." Mycroft hugged his brother back. Unable to speak.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft returned to work two weeks after Sherlock and John had found him in the Churchyard. It seemed two weeks was the maximum amount of time the country could run without him. No one knew what had happened. Mycroft had been checked into the Hospital under the name Charles Gray. As far as anyone was concerned Mycroft Holmes had come down with a bad case of the flu and had been in bed for two weeks. His slightly gaunt appearance on his first day back helped with the deception. No one guessed the truth. No one would dare. Mycroft's wrist was covered by his expensive tailored shirt sleeves and a piece of prosthetic skin.

If anything when he came back to work he was colder. More razor sharp. More focussed. Everyone was so relieved that he was back. Relieved but not pleased. Pleased was not an emotion you let Mycroft Holmes see. Not if you wanted to live at any rate. Not if you didn't want to be swatted like a fly. Shot down in flames when he brought his guns to bear on you. Because from the Prime Minister downwards everyone was terrified of him.

It was three AM when he got home. Back to the empty house. He dumped his jacket on the table in the hallway and made his way to the kitchen. But before he had gone three paces he knew something was odd. Sherlock always maintained that his brother's powers of observation were greater than his own. And he was quite correct. Just because Mycroft didn't go around Grandstanding, didn't mean that he couldn't. The runner in the hallway had the faintest traces of stone dust. The kitchen door at the far end of the hall was slightly ajar. Mycroft doubled back to the front door and picked up his Umbrella, unsheathing the three foot long sabre concealed within the cane handle.

The kitchen was empty. The house was empty. Mycroft shook his head wondering how he had come to hoping there was an assassin hiding in his fridge just so that he wouldn't be on his own at three in the morning. He considered calling security. Getting them to check the house. And then he turned round.

Wordsworth the Giraffe was sat on the white marble worktop. Looking slightly affronted at all the noise and excitement. Next to him was a plate. Some ghastly floral patterned monstrosity which was covered in Clingfilm. Attached to which was a note.

_Heat for five minutes in the microwave. The microwave is the small square thing next to the refrigerator. The refrigerator is the tall white thing you keep the Champagne in. Mrs Hudson wants her plate back. God knows why as it is quite frankly hideous. There is also cheesecake in the refrigerator. I know you will enjoy this as you have never met a cake you didn't like yet. _

_Sherlock._

Mycroft smiled. It seemed something good had come out of the wreckage of the past few weeks. Somehow Mycroft didn't feel quite so alone any more. He heated up his Shepherd's pie and sent his brother a message.

SMS: Sherlock stop breaking in to my house you little turd. M

SMS: Mycroft don't eat the whole cheesecake at once you fat bastard. Save some for breakfast. S

SMS: Thank you. M

SMS: Welcome. S.


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft was used to being on his own. Really he had spent his entire life that way. The first seven years as an only child, realising slowly that he didn't work quite the same way everyone else did. Realising with a growing horror that he could look at things and make connections that not even the adults around him seemed to be able to do. That he could see the whole world in minute detail. And he had been terrified of his parents finding out. Finding out he was a freak and sending him away. He kept away from other children. Frightened that, with their petty little brains they might tell his parents. Tell his secret.

And then Sherlock had arrived. And the year after that they had sent Mycroft away. And obviously that meant that his parents had decided they liked Sherlock better. Sherlock was probably normal. He was a quiet baby; he hardly ever cried, just regarded the world with large grey-blue eyes and sniffled a bit.

At his first prep school Mycroft had been bullied. Refusing to hit back. Refusing do anything to blow his cover. His exam results were mediocre. He hated sports. He just couldn't see the point of it all. His parent's moved him. And really that was where his life began. By walking smack into Nicholas Garrideb. There had been that briefest of moments when blue eyes had locked on green. A moment of connection. A moment when Mycroft realised he wasn't the only one. He wasn't alone.

For the first time Mycroft wasn't afraid. He went from third from bottom to top of his class. He scored joint highest with Nick on their Harrow entrance papers. Suddenly his parents seemed to notice him. Seemed to be pleased with him. Sherlock was proving to be a precocious, hyperactive nightmare by comparison. And Mycroft took full advantage of that. Full advantage of being able to mediate between his parents and his brother. Being able to handle the situation diplomatically and get both sides to do what he wanted.

Six years. Ages ten to sixteen. Then Mycroft had found he was alone again. Not just alone. That was fine, he'd done that before. Now he was alone and wounded. A huge gaping hole where his heart had once been. The Christmas after Nick had died Mycroft supposed he tried to kill himself. A very amateurish attempt with painkillers and vodka. If he hadn't drunk the vodka he might have succeeded. If Sherlock hadn't been such an interfering little bastard he might have succeeded. If nine year old Sherlock hadn't gone to Mycroft's room because he had heard Nick calling his name he might have succeeded. But he didn't. One stomach pump later and he was still alive and alone.

And then the cold had set in. The bone freezing anger at everything. Mycroft knew how to play the game. And he played not just to win, but to annihilate his opposition. With every political success, every step up the ladder, Mycroft moved further away from the lonely bullied little boy he had once been.

He sometimes caught himself and wondered what Nick would think about it all. Would he have approved? What would Mycroft have been like if he still had his heart? Certainly he wouldn't be sat on his own in his empty house, desperate for the still precocious, still hyperactive, still nightmarish brother who despised him, to commit another atrocity so that Mycroft could be reminded there was someone almost like him in the world.

Perhaps he'd been shown a glimpse of what it could have been like. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. But he knew he couldn't change. Not now. He was so far up the tree if he fell he'd break his neck. Somewhere at the bottom Mycroft knew his seven year old self was still sat up a corner, hugging his knees and sobbing. And the only thing he had left in common with the boy he used to be was that they were both, irretrievably alone.


	17. Chapter 17

It hadn't seemed like cheating. It wasn't a betrayal. Because Mycroft could honestly say that he didn't love any of them. He didn't want any of them. He was only trying to do his duty as the eldest son. Only trying to satisfy some base urge that existed somewhere in the very deepest part of his head. So why did he feel so guilty about all of them?

Sophie. She had been the second daughter of a minor Peer. Pretty. Elegant. Pale skin and Ebony hair. People had commented on how beautiful their children would be. She had liked Mycroft. Still sent him Christmas and Birthday cards. But they had both known the relationship was not going to work after one rather traumatic night. Mycroft had tried his best. There was no reason why a perfectly healthy young man should not be able to have sexual relations with a beautiful, perfectly healthy young woman. After twenty minutes of his pathetic attempts at sex, Sophie had calmly stopped him and told him that he was gay. She had been very nice about it. Had even offered to marry Mycroft so that his mother would leave him alone. He had the first and only blazing argument with his mother over it. Mrs Holmes stopped her matchmaking.

There had been the occasional encounter at Cambridge. Mutually beneficial and always with someone with just as much to lose as him. No passion. No emotion. Just release. Somehow he could justify that in his head. It wasn't betraying Nick. Because he didn't feel anything for these people. He didn't choose them. Any warm male body would do. He kept telling himself that. Repeating it over and over in his head when he found himself in bed with yet another short, stocky, strawberry blond that it was okay to close his eyes and pretend it was Nick and no one would ever know. But he knew.

Mycroft was sitting in his office. And something different was going on. Something that until two minutes before he had been completely unaware of. He was kicking himself really. It was an error worthy of Sherlock. Jonathan had worked for them for about three years. His father had a seat in the Lords and Jonathan had come from Oxford with a double first in Law. He was polite, discreet, hardworking and intelligent. Exactly what they wanted. And he was very good at his job. Whatever Mycroft asked for, when he asked for it.

Their fingertips had brushed for a fraction of a second as Jonathan handed Mycroft a folder. A fraction of a second that was more than enough time for Mycroft's brain to gather all the facts. Time to take in his dilated pupils. The slight blush suffusing his face. The downward glance as he suddenly became very interested in the top of the desk.

"Thank you Jonathan, that will be everything for now." The briefest moment of hurt as he was dismissed.

"Yes Sir." Mycroft watched him leave.

Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. He poured himself a glass of scotch, downed it and then poured another one, resisting the urge to hurl the bottle at the wall. Ten minutes passed before he had calmed down, rid himself of the destructive urges. But he couldn't rid himself of Jonathan's eyes. Bright Emerald Green. How had he never noticed that before?

"Anthea?" he buzzed the intercom.

"Yes Mr. Holmes?"

"Can you ask Jonathan to bring me the Boscombe Valley File please?"

"Yes Sir."

It wasn't betrayal. It wasn't cheating. He didn't love him. He didn't want him. He just wanted to close his eyes and pretend.


	18. Chapter 18

It was strange how the tiniest little thing could set off a whole chain of memories. In this instance it was a slice of Blackberry pie. Mycroft must have had Blackberry pie hundreds of times. As Sherlock was so keen to point out, his elder brother was very fond of pudding. But this time it sparked off a chain reaction of emotions in his head. This time he was ten years old, nearly eleven. Sitting in the family car. Coming home...

"Wow Mikey! You live in Brideshead Castle!" Nick had exclaimed as he peered out of the car window. The first glimpses of the pink sandstone walls and gothic turrets had loomed into sight.

"Do you like it?"

"It's brilliant."

"That's my room up there." Mycroft pointed to a window in one of the towers as the car came to a halt in the courtyard in front of the house. "Mummy says we can share if you want to? Although you can have one of the guest rooms. There are lots of them." Mycroft really wanted to share his room with Nick. Somehow it seemed very important.

"No. I'll share with you." Nick smiled and Mycroft's world stopped turning for a few seconds

The front door was wrenched open and a small curly haired boy came rocketing out. Mycroft had forgotten about Sherlock in his excitement and he steeled himself for the embarrassing onslaught that was inevitable.

"Hello Sherlock." Mycroft held his breath. He should have warned Nicholas about his hyperactive, difficult, little brother.

"Go away Fatty!" The little boy stuck out his tongue. Mycroft blushed, his recent growth spurt had gotten rid of the last of his childhood chubbiness, but he was still sensitive about it. Which Sherlock was only too aware of. And then Sherlock turned his attention to Nicholas. "Who are you?"

"I'm Nick. I'm Mycroft's friend." Nick held out his hand, which Sherlock regarded with distaste.

"Who wants to friends with him?" Nicholas crouched down so he was facing Sherlock.

"I do. Now does your mummy know you've been stealing blackberry pie from the kitchen this morning?" Sherlock's eyes widened.

"How did you know that?"

"Your tongue's purple. And you've scraped your knee, probably climbing up something. If it was something you were allowed to be climbing up and you hurt yourself you would have asked your Mummy to put a plaster on it. So you must have been doing something naughty. I'm guessing there's a nail on the shelf in the pantry. And you've been sneaking pie. It's okay. I'm not a snitch." Sherlock stood opened mouthed for a few moments before launching himself at Nick and putting his little arms around his neck.

"I really like your friend Mycroft." Nick looked up at Mycroft and winked. "Is he staying for the whole of the holidays? Will you show me how to do that trick?"

"What trick?"

"When you look at someone and tell things about them. That's just the best thing ever."

...Mycroft chewed on his pie. And smiled. Because thinking about it, Sherlock was absolutely right, even at the age of three-nearly-four. For him it really had been the best thing ever.


	19. Chapter 19

It always seemed to be the most ordinary of days when things happened. One Minute you were sat in your club enjoying a cup of earl grey and a biscuit, the next you had a text to say your little brother had just broken in to a government research facility and just what were you going to do about it? That sort of thing. But out of the ordinary always seemed to come the extraordinary. And then you were unable to forget the boring and the mundane...

It had started out like every other Saturday morning. With Nick sneaking into his room at six thirty. Nick wearing just his pyjama trousers and looking adorable in the early morning light pouring through the chink in the curtains of Mycroft's room. All the older boys had their own rooms. Nick's was next door. Nick had recently had a growth spurt of one and a half inches and was rather proud of his rapidly broadening shoulders and chest hair. Mycroft was still awaiting the development of the five or six red hairs on his chest into the respectable sprinkling he would have as an adult. Nick woke Mycroft up in his usual fashion by launching himself at Mycroft's legs.

"Come on Mikey. Wake up!" Mycroft could feel Nick's early morning erection through the blankets, and felt himself responding. They both knew it was getting closer. That moment. That moment when they would cut the last few strings of restraint holding them back and would belong to each other completely. Mycroft reached sleepily for Nick, feeling his soft bare skin. Tracing his hands across the lines of his back and never wanting to let go. It was risky of course. If they were caught they would be in trouble. Mycroft ran a hand over Nick's belly, he still had a little bit of puppy fat to lose, and slowly inched his fingers into Nick's pyjamas, feeling Nick pushing against his hand. Yes they were so close.

And then there had been the bang on the door.

"Garrideb? I know you're in there you little poof. Leave Holmes alone. Not every one is a deviant like you."

"Buggar off Rickman. Unless you want to join in."

"Just remember you're supposed to playing Badminton later." The voice and its owner stomped off.

Xxx

"Mikey are you coming to watch?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No its fine. Read your book." Nick knew how Mycroft felt about sports. But he couldn't keep the small note of disappointment from his voice.

"I'll just finish this chapter. Then I'll be out."

"Okay." Nick had turned to go, the soles of his trainers squeaking on the floor. Then he had turned back, leaning on the door frame. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. You do know that right?" Mycroft had nodded but had found himself unable to speak. So he hadn't said I love you back. Because there was time. Time to finish the chapter. Time to go and watch the stupid Badminton game. Time to say everything he needed to say. That he should say.

Xxxx

Half an hour later there had been a knock on the door. Mycroft had typically got so engrossed in his book that he had forgotten about the time, forgotten about Nick's Badminton game. Professor bell stood in the doorway, a tall imposing man with curly white hair.

"Mycroft?" He almost fell off the bed. Professor Bell was very much a Surnames only kind of man.

"Professor." It had to be bad news. Perhaps his Mother or Sherlock. But it would be okay. He'd find Nick and then it would all be fine.

"I'm afraid something has happened. Mr Garrideb collapsed during his Badminton match."

"Is he all right?" Bell probably wanted him to get Nick's pyjamas for him or something.

"I'm afraid not. He's dead." And Mycroft felt his legs buckle under him. All the time he thought they had just ran out. There was no future any more, just past. And the ordinary day had just become extraordinary. The moment burnt into Mycroft's brain, searing itself into his soul like a cattle brand. And then after the burning, he was numb, as though he had been turned to ice.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft really didn't feel the cold. Whilst Sherlock was swanning around in his huge coat on all but the warmest days, even in the depths of winter Mycroft only ever wore a light Crombie, and even then he took his suit jacket off wherever possible. He had heard all the jokes of course. The endless witticisms from Sherlock about body fat and whales. And the whispered mutterings from his staff about "The Iceman". Everyone was a comedian!

The only thing that really bothered Mycroft in the cold weather was his arm. A couple of inches below his left elbow. In the unlikely event of someone running their finger along it they would feel a knot of bone, the tell tale sign of a breakage. In the cold weather his arm would tingle and the feeling in his fingers would disappear. Sometimes it was so bad he would put a hot water bottle on it to try and reduce the pain to an aching numbness. He never took painkillers. If he wanted he could have got hold of an entire pharmacy worth of Opiates and no questions asked. But Mycroft had seen firsthand the dangers of drugs, the seductive pleasure of a cushion of oblivion. No. Not for him. He needed his pain. The pain helped him remember.

At thirteen years old, you didn't really have fears. Or at least not the fears an adult has. You have irrational fears about the spots on your back or whether you will ever stop being so much taller than everyone else. Irrational fears about creaking floorboards and the spooky old tree near the lake. You didn't worry about hurtling down the stairs on a tea tray. That wasn't scary. It was fun.

It was fun watching your best friend slide from the top of the stairs right to the bottom and then get tipped out onto the hall carpet, helpless with laughter. It was fun watching your little brother bumping down the stairs shouting "Faster!" at the top of his lungs. And it was fun folding yourself into the tray and speeding down the stairs. It was fun right up to the point the tray took a skid to the side and you were tipped out, completing the journey to the hall on your front. It was fun right up to the moment you sat up and noticed your left arm was bent at a strange angle and your hand was upside down.

Nick's face had been as white as Mycroft's. But if Mycroft was the Iceman, Nick was the cool head.

"Sherlock. Go and fetch Mummy. Now please." Nick was the only person Sherlock ever obeyed.

"It's broken isn't it?" Tears were running down Mycroft's cheeks but he was determined not to cry properly in front of Nick. Boys didn't cry. Even when things hurt. Daddy said so.

"Yes." Nick nodded and carefully helped Mycroft to stand and then sit down on one of the chairs in the hall. Mrs Holmes took one look at her eldest son's tear stained face and the pale face of his best friend and called for the car. By which time, Nick, with the presence of mind of the Doctor he would have been, had made a sling from an old table cloth to support the broken arm.

The car journey took forever. Every bump in the road jarring the broken ends of bone together and causing more tears to run down Mycroft's face. All the time Nick's arm was around his shoulders, the tears dripping onto his hand. Nick pulled out his handkerchief, remarkably clean by thirteen year old standards, and wiped Mycroft's tears away.

The car swung in to Downing Street, the frost already forming on the pavement.

"Sir? We're here." Mycroft pulled his attention away from the dying light outside, replacing the thoughtful look on his face with a mask of total indifference. A mask that told everyone he could crush them all if he wanted. His left arm twinged a little as he picked up his briefcase, the pain flowing up his arm. Mycroft blinked any tears that might have been forming back. Boys didn't cry. Daddy had said so. Besides, there was no one left to wipe them away for him any more.


	21. Chapter 21

The first flakes of snow had started to settle on Whitehall, sugar coating the seats of power and turning everything in to a Dickensian Postcard. Mycroft looked out of his window, taking in the strange lilac sky over London and the streetlights slowly buzzing in to life. No doubt the whole country would grind to a halt the moment its inhabitants realised it was snowing. There was already a panic of people trying to get home before the city reached gridlock. Mycroft didn't really care what the weather was doing. In the words of the song, he had no place to go, so let it snow.

The snow had become more intense when he looked up from his report again and saw the blanket of white draped across the lawns. And in the twilight Mycroft saw two boys, probably children of some member of staff, racing across the covered grass and diving in to the snow. He could hear the sounds of their laughter even through the thick bullet proof glass of his windows. Mycroft turned his attention back to his desk and the mountain of paper work. But at the back of his mind he couldn't help but remember.

Sherlock had the Mumps. He had to stay in bed. Of course this was easier said than done. Especially as it had snowed and the whole of the grounds had been turned into one big white adventure playground. If Sherlock hadn't been such a complete pain in the arse, Mycroft would have almost felt sorry for him. Normal Nightmare Sherlock had been replaced with Possessed-by-the-devil Sherlock. Mummy was beside herself trying to keep him occupied, and stop him from trashing his room, the house, and eventually himself as he beat his head on the wall by his bed repeating the phrase: "Bored, Bored, Bored." As loudly as his sore throat would allow.

It had been Nick's idea. Of course it had. Over breakfast. Breakfast where Mycroft would pick half heartedly at a bowl of cornflakes, terrified of getting fat, and Nick would demolish his own body weight in toast and jam.

"Let's make Sherlock a snowman. A big one." Mycroft had never made a snowman before. It seemed like a whole lot of physical activity for something that was just going to melt in a couple of days. But Nick seemed keen and of course Mycroft always did whatever Nick asked him to. Nick pushed a couple of very jammy slices of toast onto Mycroft's plate with a grin. Mycroft smiled back at him and began to chew his toast.

The actual construction of the snowman had taken some time. In fact it had taken them three hours to assemble what Nick had deemed the required amount of snow. And then Mrs Holmes had called them in for tea and biscuits to warm up. The daylight had started to fade by the time the sculpting phase had been completed and the front lawn was graced with a nine foot high, rather faithful rendition of an Easter Island head. Although they had made it slightly less grumpy looking than its stone counterparts.

It smiled up at Sherlock's window. And the small curly haired audience of one that had his face pressed to the glass stared in open mouthed wonder at his Snowman. That His big brother and His friend had made for Him. Sherlock felt a lot better.

They walked back to the house, arms brushing together, almost but not quite holding hands. Boys didn't hold hands. Another thing Daddy had told Mycroft. Mycroft began to wonder if there was something wrong with him. He continued to wonder as he sipped his hot chocolate. Continued to wonder through dinner. Continued to wonder as he pulled on his pyjamas and slipped into bed. And he came to the conclusion that if there was something wrong with him, the same thing might be wrong with Nick as well...

The daylight was nearly gone, and the two boys were just putting the finishing touches to their snowman as Mycroft peered out of the window once more. The younger of the two boys, or at least the smaller, suddenly looked up, noticing the tall man at the window. He smiled and waved cheekily. Mycroft smiled and waved back.


	22. Chapter 22

Nick's room had seemed icy cold, even though it had been summer. Cold as the grave. The curtains were drawn back and the bed neatly made. Nick was a neat boy. He liked order. Or at least he had done. Past tense. Everything was past tense now thought Mycroft as he stood in the room and looked around. Mrs Garrideb had asked Mycroft to pack up his things. Perhaps she had not wanted to do it herself, or perhaps she was affording her son one last bit of privacy by asking his best friend to go through his things. Perhaps she thought she would find something that would be embarrassing. Which was ridiculous. The dead didn't get embarrassed.

Mycroft started on the wardrobe, packing clothes into Nick's school trunk. Making sure that everything was clean. Even polishing Nick's Sunday shoes. He knew there was no point, that everything would probably just be thrown away, but he did it anyway.

There were stacks of books, a microscope, fossils, Air-fix models, the usual detritus of boyhood. There was a periodic table and a picture of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out. Mycroft put everything in trunk. Like filling another coffin with Nick's things. He had shut the door. Keeping the eyes of the rest of the House, the School, the World away from his own private memorial service. Earlier he had sneaked in to the room and swapped the pillows over. Taking Nick's pillow and trading it for his own. Now he carefully removed the covers from the bed and put them in the laundry bag. Where they would be sent to be washed. To wash all traces of Nick away.

He reached up onto the last shelf. The one above Nick's bed to take Wordsworth down. Wordsworth was Nick's Giraffe. A slightly soggy creature with floppy legs and a sarcastic expression. Nick always said it reminded him of Mycroft. The Giraffe was looking at Mycroft with an expression that clearly said it didn't want to go in the trunk. Mrs Garrideb had said he could take whatever he wanted. And he thought Nick would appreciate him looking after Wordsworth. He would of course have to hide him from Sherlock. Teddy bears were for babies and Cissy-boys. Daddy said so.

And just behind Wordsworth, on the shelf was a small box. Mycroft could not remember ever seeing it before. When he opened it he realised why.

There was a note. Nick's handwriting was truly appalling; he maintained he was practicing for when he became a Doctor.

_Mycroft,_

_You are my everything. The other half of me. Please let me be the other half of you._

_Nick._

And inside the box. A ring. A simple but elegant gold band. Mycroft slipped it on to his finger. Perfect fit.

"I do." He whispered. And he swore to himself he would never take it off. Ever.


	23. Chapter 23

Nick knew he was dead. One minute it had been a sunny morning and he was playing badminton, the next everyone was shouting and then it all went black. And then. After what seemed like very little time at all, he had woken up in a strange house, in a strange bed with a large black Labrador licking his face. The Labrador's collar tag said "Baskeville" and the dog seemed to answer to that. The dog seemed friendly, if a bit strange, like the rest of the house. Nick had looked in the mirror in the bathroom to see a stranger looking back at him. A man in his forties with thinning hair and green eyes. Nick ran a hand through his hair, mirror man did the same. Nick poked his soggy waistline. So did mirror man. Nick peered inside his boxer shorts. Mirror man and him both smiled.

He walked through the house. There was something strangely familiar about it. He wondered if he had been there before. A house that big ought to probably have a housekeeper or a cleaner or something. Only Nick was on his own. Except for the dog. It was strange because the house seemed to contain everything he had ever wanted. Everything he had ever promised himself as a child that he would have as an adult. All except one thing. The one thing he had wanted more than anything else. And he supposed as he began to realise the true nature of his situation, the one thing he wasn't going to get.

Mycroft.

Because Nick was dead. And Mycroft was still alive. Which was good. Mikey was all right. It was all fine. But if it was all fine why did that upset Nick far more than being dead? And surely if this was some kind of afterlife there ought to be some kind of representative of whatever all mighty power was running the show to explain it all to him. If there wasn't it was very badly organised.

Nick knew he was crying. He was surprised. Death was full of surprises it seemed. Like why was he suddenly forty four when his last memory had been of being sixteen? And what had happened to his hair? Baskeville sauntered over to him and licked his hand where the tears had dripped. The dog nudged him with his nose.

"Baskeville?" The dog looked up at Nick expectantly "What happens now?"

A large paw was placed on Nick's knee, as though the dog was trying to comfort him.

"Will I ever see him again? Or is this it?" Nick looked around the large room, which despite its furnishings and flickering fire, seemed cold and empty. "Do I have to wait? Until he dies?" And for a moment, just a very brief moment Nick wished Mycroft would be dead as well so he could join him. He shook the thought from his head. No. Not that, Anything but that. Mycroft had to live, to do all the things they had talked about.

"I guess I'll wait. For as long as it takes." He paused. And a terrible thought hit him. "But he'll forget me won't he? He'll find someone else?" The thought hurt him. But that was how it was supposed to be. He couldn't expect Mycroft to mourn him forever. Mycroft had a life to live. Without Nick. Mycroft would find someone else and carry on living.

It was fine. It was all fine. Nick put his arms around the dog's neck. Baskeville didn't seem to mind. And as Nick held on to his furry companion in eternity he wondered if this was supposed to be heaven or hell. It all looked very much the same.


	24. Chapter 24

**(Nicky is Anthea's son. Read chapter 79 of Insomnia for more details!)**

Mycroft helped Nicky into his pyjamas. He was very small for six. His tiny body already covered in scars from a dozen operations. Mycroft ensured he was wrapped snugly in his dressing gown before sorting out the boy's medication. Not just one or two pills, to be taken with water. A whole bowlful of them. It looked like a bowl of sweets. Only there was nothing sweet about it. Some of the pills made him sleepy. He snuggled up against Mycroft's soft cashmere jumper and his head began to droop.

Nicky liked Mycroft. He wasn't quite sure why. All the grownups seemed to be scared of him. Which was just silly, because Mycroft wasn't scary at all. Mycroft let him sneak biscuits when mummy wasn't looking. Nicky wasn't really allowed biscuits. Mycroft let Nicky slide up and down the polished floor of his office. Sometimes, Mycroft would take his shoes off and slide up and down as well. And Mycroft always seemed so very sorry when Nicky had to take his medicine. Which was silly as well, because it wasn't really Mycroft's fault.

And every so often. And this was the big secret. The one that only Nicky, and Mycroft and Mummy knew. Sometimes Nicky was allowed to stay at Mycroft's house. And then he was allowed to stay up late and watch Horror films and eat ice cream.

And then the secret that only Nicky knew. Or maybe it wasn't a secret, because he wasn't sure it was real. And if it wasn't real then it was just imaginary. And you couldn't have imaginary secrets. Because that would be really stupid. But sometimes when he went to sleep there was a man in his room. Not a scary man. A nice man. A nice man who smiled at him and watched him from the foot of the bed. Or sometimes sat in the chair next to it. Just like he was watching over him.

Mycroft carried him to bed. The small room just down the corridor from Mycroft's. Easily mistaken by visitors as a cupboard, but the door swung open to reveal spaceships on the curtains, glow in the dark stars on the walls and ceiling, and Doctor Who on the quilt cover. He slipped Nicky's Dalek dressing gown off and lowered him expertly in to bed. No one would ever believe Mycroft Holmes was good with children.

And it was then that Mycroft noticed The Giraffe sat patiently on the chair by the side of the bed. Mycroft thought he must have brought him in by accident when he was checking the room earlier that day. Nicky opened his eyes sleepily.

"Uncle Mikey can Wordsworth sleep here tonight?"

"Sorry?" Mycroft was sure he had misheard.

"Can Wordsworth sleep here?" Nicky reached out for the Giraffe, grabbing him by a leg and pulling him on to the bed.

"Yes of course." Mycroft paused. "Nicholas, Nicky, how do you know what his name is?"

Nicky pushed his blond hair from those big green eyes.

"The other man that lives here told me. The other Nicholas." Nicky snuggled down into the duvet, hugging on to Wordsworth. The Giraffe looked rather pleased with itself.

"Goodnight Nicky." Mycroft pressed his lips gently to Nicky's forehead, and made his way downstairs.

The horror film they had been watching was still playing out on the Television. Peter Cushing was just hammering home a stake into a female vampire. Mycroft poured himself a very large brandy and settled down to watch the end of the film.


	25. Chapter 25

John Watson was an excellent Doctor. In fact John Watson was an exceptional Doctor. Perhaps his academic transcript wouldn't give you that impression. Four A-Levels, three As and a B. His marks at University were high average. On the pieces of paper that the exam boards issued it told the world that John Hamish Watson was okay, but nothing special.

But what makes a Doctor a Doctor and not just a clever bloke with a copy of Gray's Anatomy is something slightly less tangible. Something that Sherlock recognised at once when John limped through the door of St. Bart's. That certain spark of determination. You had to be determined. Life was fatal. As a Doctor, really, your entire job was a futile attempt to postpone the inevitable. But you did it anyway.

The doors of the hospital had snapped open, and outside John could see blue lights and black cars. He looked over the desk at the Triage Nurse.

"Amanda? Have we just had a Station One alert?" He pushed himself up on the counter so he could peer over it. The red phone was silent.

"No John. And they usually let us know if there's a drill."

John turned, just in time to see the ashen faced figure of Mycroft Holmes stride in to the building, flanked on either side by secret service. Armed secret service. One day John was going to have to ask Mycroft what his job actually was.

"Doctor Watson?" Mycroft's voice was even, Icy-calm. This was not going to be good.

"Is Sherlock all right?" Why was John's first thought always for Sherlock?

"Yes. I need you to treat this patient John." There was just the slightest crack as he spoke. Mycroft stepped aside. The ambulance crew were bringing in a gurney, the small figure on it, buried with wires and tubes. John looked back to Mycroft's face. The mask was still there. Just. The eyes were still summer-day blue, but the clouds were gathering behind them. John knew immediately who the tiny scrap of humanity on the Gurney was.

"Mycroft! I'm not a Paediatrician or a Cardiologist. We need to get him to Great Ormond Street. Now."

"No John. You're a Doctor." Whatever short circuit was going on in Mycroft's head, John could not imagine. There seemed to be a lot of faulty wiring in the Holmes family. But essentially Mycroft was right. Treat the patient in front of you.

"Page Mike for me please Amanda." John got the run down from the ambulance crew. His patient was fighting for every breath. An Asthma attack that wouldn't stop, which was now placing too much strain on the boy's heart. John took a deep breath, he had an entire hospital full of medication and equipment, and somehow he didn't think it was going to be enough.

John walked quickly beside the gurney as it was moved in to an emergency room, reading the chart from the ambulance as he went. Reading on the move was a skill he had picked up in the army. Mike met them in the ER and John silently handed him the chart. There was a shake of heads. Mike understood just how many drugs they had already pumped into Nicky's tiny body. The boy's heartbeat was rising. If they didn't do something soon he would go into Cardiac Arrest, and John was almost certain that once that happened there would be nothing he could do. But doing nothing was never an option. As John's brain raced to think of something, he had a vague recollection of one of his first year text books.

"Get me a bucket full of Ice-water. Now!" John shouted at one of the ER nurses, who ran from the room. Mike raised an eyebrow. Mike was another average student. Spent too much time in the bar and not enough on his books. His tutors all said it. But they all knew he'd make a good Doctor.

The nurse arrived back with the ice. John nodded to Mike, and the highly trained staff watched in confusion as Doctor Stamford disconnected the patient's oxygen line, and Doctor Watson picked the patient up and plunged him head first into a bucket of icy water.

It was as though someone had slammed on the brakes. Nicky's heart beat slowed almost instantly. John pulled him out of the ice, spluttering, and Mike reconnected the Oxygen.

"Okay. Call Great Ormond Street let them know we're on our way." John left Mike in charge.

Mycroft was still standing in the foyer, flanked by his bodyguard. Glaring at anyone who came within ten feet of him.

"He's stable. We need to get him to Great Ormond Street. We're not geared up to treat children, they are."

Mycroft was already on his phone, ordering roads to be closed, traffic to be diverted and a Police escort. The earlier emotion John had seen was gone from his face. But John knew it was lurking somewhere.

"Thank you Doctor Watson."

"You're very welcome Mr Holmes." They left it at that. Nothing else needed to be said. Not there.

Twenty four painful hours later Mycroft arrived home. Nicky was stable. Doing well. Asking for Ice Cream. Mycroft knew John had done something unorthodox. He knew by the way the staff, the medical students were all buzzing about it. How Doctor Watson was a genius. Mycroft had expected no less. John Watson would find a hefty bonus in his wages next month. Genius was to be rewarded.

Wearily, brandy in hand, Mycroft climbed the stairs to the top of the house. He had promised Nicky that the next time he visited he would bring Wordsworth for him. The key clicked in the lock. The room was exactly as he had left it. Except that there was a book open on the desk. A book that had been on the Shelves. First year medical text. Nothing remarkable. Except that Mycroft found himself looking at three words highlighted on the page:

**Mammalian Dive Reflex**.

He closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths of air to steady himself, and very briefly, he thought he felt a hand brush against his cheek.


	26. Chapter 26

It was a very short list. The list of things Sherlock didn't know. And most of them were to do with Mycroft. Which drove Sherlock insane. The machinery of his brain spent a good many hours trying to solve the list. But there were things he would never know. Insufficient data.

Sherlock never knew what had happened to his childhood tormentors. In all honesty he wasn't that interested. Like a case that was beneath him. Boring. One day they had gone. And Sherlock's enquiring mind had decided it wasn't even worth the effort of his curiosity. Although perhaps some small part of him didn't want to know. Didn't care. Because really in the deepest part of his mind he was relieved. Or perhaps that deep part of his mind knew the truth.

At the time, Mycroft had been a junior member of the civil service. Or that was what his official credentials had said. But sixteen year old Sherlock guessed that wasn't quite what his brother did. Paper pushers didn't have calluses on their right hand, or the hairs on their wrist singed by gunpowder. Nor did someone who spent all his time at a desk look remarkably well muscled and tanned. Sherlock was fairly sure Mycroft was a spy. Typical. He'd always been a sneaky git, and now he was getting paid for it. Paid a lot for it if the newly tailored suit, with the faintest of traces of chalk still visible on the shoulder were anything to go by.

Sherlock had sat sullenly in the Housemaster's study. Picking at the buttons on his waistcoat. Another reason to hate Sunday. Stupid Tailcoat and Trousers. He watched his brother's eyes. That was the only way you could ever tell what Mycroft was thinking. They weren't so much a window to the soul. Sherlock was fairly sure Mycroft had traded his soul for something more interesting, but those delicate blue eyes were more like a pressure gauge. And right now, the pressure was entering the red zone.

The Housemaster was blissfully unaware of this. Although there was something g about the tall young man in front of him that was slightly unnerving. There seemed to be no trace of the studious, quiet, reserved boy he remembered. The man in front of him was cold. Calculating. Like Ice.

"We've never had a problem with bullying here, Mycroft."

"Really?" One eyebrow arched slightly.

"And I'm afraid Sherlock makes no effort to get along with the other boys. I don't know what he's been telling you, but I can assure you that..."

There was the slightest flicker of blue as Mycroft considered his younger brother, then looked back into the puffy face of his old housemaster. The mask of benign acceptance in place once more.

"Yes. Quite." Where Sherlock found it impossible to read his brother but to Mycroft, Sherlock was an open book. He had never said he was being bullied. But Mycroft knew. Mycroft knew about the continuous beatings, name calling, stealing and breaking of property. Mycroft even knew about the other humiliations. The bright shame that burnt at the back of his brother's eyes. The things that only Mycroft could see. And he knew who was responsible. And they would pay for it.

Sherlock looked down at the floor. He felt alone. His last hope, and it had been a tiny hope at that, was gone. He knew Mycroft was different now. Mycroft didn't care about anything. Especially not Sherlock.

They left the Study, Sherlock heading back to his room, Mycroft heading back to the Aston Martin parked outside, which was attracting the admiring glances of several people. But not before he paused to watch his brother, walking, head bowed like a condemned man, up the stairs. That made up his mind.

Horatio Blenkinsop was discovered the following day. He was wearing nothing but a pair of soiled boxer shorts, sitting in his own excrement, two snotty lines of tears smeared down his chest. He had been locked in a cupboard and was holding what he told anyone who would listen was an explosive device which was motion sensitive and would blow his head off if it was moved. The device turned out to be an ordinary cigarette case. Horatio refused to tell anyone who had done this to him. After a short period of consultation his parents decided it would be best if he were to go to a less academically challenging school closer to the family home.

Harry Davies had disappeared for a week. He was deposited in his parents' front garden seven days later, with no apparent recollection of where he had been, or who he was. He eventually regained some of his memory. And developed an irrational fear of men with red hair.

Of course the finger would have pointed at Sherlock but for the very public argument he had been seen having with his brother. Which had established his alibi. The younger Holmes boy had been screaming and shouting. Attracting attention like the freak the rest of the school thought he was. All because his big brother wanted to take him out to lunch.

"You don't care about me. I hate you. Why don't you just die and leave me alone." Sherlock had punched Mycroft. Spat in his face. Beat his fists against Mycroft's chest and sobbed obscenities in three languages as Mycroft had forced him into the car. Some of the other boys felt rather sorry for Mycroft. Imagine being saddled with that as a brother?

Mycroft had smiled to himself as he drove away from the school. He wondered if Sherlock would ever work out what happened to his bullies. He hoped not. Caring was not an advantage he wanted to give Sherlock over him.


	27. Chapter 27

Mycroft had distinctly said Barbecue. That was what John remembered clearly. Except it seemed that Barbecue was some sort of code. To John, barbecue meant shorts, Hawaiian shirts (of which he had five that almost rivalled his jumper collection in their hideousness), beer, cremated burgers and slightly dodgy evening games of "I have never." To the family Holmes, barbecue obviously meant "Royal Garden Party."

Sherlock had tutted and sulked, but eventually emerged from his room resplendent in a pale blue linen suit and black shirt. Explaining that it was what everyone would be wearing. John fingered his cut off jeans self consciously and went to find a pair of trousers. Even Mrs Hudson seemed to understand the dress code for a Mycroft Barbecue. She was wearing a rather fetching liberty print sundress with an elegant silk shawl.

"Mr Holmes is in the garden with Master Nicholas." Since when had Mycroft had a butler? John raised questioning eyebrow at Sherlock, who shrugged. And really since when had Mycroft dressed like that? John tried not to stare. But Mycroft did look rather good.

Sherlock glared at his brother who was wearing a pair of cream linen trousers and a close fitting blue linen shirt. Ironically the shirt was the same colour as Sherlock's suit. But John sensed it wasn't the shirt that was the problem, rather the Pirate Ship shaped bouncy castle and the small boy Mycroft was assisting in his bouncing.

"Doctor Watson!" The small boy shrieked and leapt on to the grass. The last time John had seen Nicky, he'd stuffed the poor little lad into a bucket of freezing water. Obviously there were no hard feelings as Nicky Launched himself at John. "I've got a pirate ship! See?" He gestured towards the inflatable as though they might not have noticed it. "And there's cake and jelly and ice-cream!"

"I thought there might be!" Sherlock said sarcastically. Here we go again thought John. "My brother's favourite things!"

"Actually his favourite thing is Liquorice Allsorts." Nicky used the tone of voice children tended to reserve for when grown-ups were being unbelievably stupid. John tried not to laugh. "And you like Blackberry Pie. Or at least you used to." And he scurried back over to the Pirate Ship. Sherlock looked at John.

"Mycroft must have told him. Mycroft must have told him about me. Why would he do that?"

"Because you're his brother and he loves you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He doesn't love anything. He's The Iceman of Whitehall." As if to prove him wrong the "Iceman" was currently laying full length on the pirate ship whilst a small pirate attempted to make him bounce the plank. Both seemed to find it very amusing.

Sherlock looked wistfully at the bouncy castle.

"Go on. I know you want to. Just try not to break your neck."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." But Sherlock was already slipping off his shoes.

He took a running jump at the inflatable, landing gracefully in the middle and launching Mycroft off the edge and onto the grass. John tensed for a moment, sensing trouble. Nicky clapped, it was obviously what he had been trying, and failing to achieve. Mycroft stood up, his pale trousers ruined with grass stains. He looked at his brother for one brief moment before throwing his head back and laughing. Sherlock looked up from where he was slowly being swallowed by bouncy pirate ship and smiled back.

For the briefest of moments and only so John noticed, the ghosts of the two boys Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes had been once upon a time were there for all to see. Laughing in the sunshine, the way they did before they both got complicated by life.


	28. Chapter 28

Tim couldn't quite work out what was going on. The agency had been very specific. Told him to wear the best suit he had and to be punctual. Tim had only just started with them, and they had been blunt when he'd signed up. He had a certain boy next door charm, but most clients wanted the extraordinary not the mundane. As he had sat in the waiting room, a young man he understood to be called Benedict flounced through, all floppy blond hair and high cheekbones and long legs. That was what most of the clients wanted.

But apparently this client had taken one look at his picture and asked for him straight away. The briefing was very simple: he was to have dinner with the client. He was under no circumstances to ask the client for any personal details. The client may require extra services.

The restaurant was empty, except for several men in black suits, subtly blending in with the wallpaper. And a tall man sat alone at a table. He wasn't bad looking, Tim thought to himself, obviously he had money and influence. So why was he going to the agency?

Tim was shown to his seat. The man smiled at him, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. The eyes were cold. Dead. Kind of like a doll's eyes.

"Do sit down...?"

"Tim."

"Tim? Timothy?" The man rolled the name around his mouth.

"What should I call you Sir?" Did that count as personal details?

"Joshua Reynolds. Joshua." He held out a large hand. Carefully manicured. The hand was cold.

"Right. Okay. Joshua."

It was a pleasant enough dinner. The food was excellent. The conversation was awkward, as was to be expected, but the client, Joshua, didn't seem to mind that. He seemed to be content just to look at Tim.

He didn't stare. It wasn't staring. It was more like he was looking for something in Tim's face. Trying to find something.

They finished the meal and Tim knew what happened next. This was the point he had to ask if there was anything extra. Meaning would the client want to have sex with him. By all accounts most of them did, and some of them were a bit eccentric in their preferences. Still it paid the tuition fees.

"Would you like anything extra?" He was sure there must have been a more subtle way of saying it. The cold eyes flickered over him for a second.

"Yes. I think I would." It wouldn't be so bad. The client was reasonably young, obviously looked after himself, nice looking, even smelled nice. It wouldn't be so bad.

The house was huge. And cold. And it seemed sad. Could a house be sad? This one was. The bedroom was filled with expensive furniture, there was an en-suite kitted out with marble fittings, and a walk-in wardrobe the size of Tim's flat. But there was no personality to any of it. It was almost like a film set. Everything was just for show.

The client had removed his jacket and was sat on the edge of the bed, the closely fitted waistcoat accentuating the lean lines of his body. He beckoned Tim to sit beside him, the signet ring on his right hand glinting in the light from the bedside lamp. And then he kissed him. He closed his eyes and wrapped his long arms around Tim's broad shoulders, running his elegant hands through Tim's strawberry blond hair. He had his eyes closed and he was smiling. And for a moment he was warm. Alive. Tim could feel the older man's erection pushing against him through the material of two pairs of trousers.

And then he stopped. The smile on Joshua Reynolds' face was sad, and the sadness was reflected in his eyes.

"Thank you. That will be everything. You can go now. My driver will take you wherever you need to go."

Tim sat in the car. Wondering what he'd done wrong. He was probably going to get fired from the agency for this. Then he'd have to try and get another job to fund his studies. He looked up at the forbidding house and saw a light click on in one of the attic rooms. He wondered if Joshua would be okay?

Tim just made it to his anatomy class the following morning. Seconds to spare with his dissection kit and white coat scrunched up under his arm. He was making his way to his appointed Cadaver when Dr Stamford called him.

"Hey Tim?"

"Yes Dr Stamford. Sorry I'm late."

"No you're fine. This came for you about an hour ago. Congratulations." Dr Stamford handed him an envelope. The paper inside was thick, creamy coloured.

_To Mr Timothy John Wilson_

_I have great pleasure in informing you that you have been selected to receive a scholarship from the Nicholas Garrideb Foundation. This scholarship will cover all of your tuition fees and living expenses for the duration of your studies and will also pay for any outstanding loans you may have._

_Funds will be paid into your Bank Account. You need do nothing extra._

_My sincerest congratulations_

_Mycroft Holmes._

The signature was elegant. Obviously signed with an expensive pen. But Tim was confused. He was certain he had never applied for any Scholarship. He was certain he'd never met anyone called Nicholas Garrideb or Mycroft Holmes. He turned the envelope over- the flap was sealed with wax. Who used wax these days? And then he remembered a signet ring glinting in the light next to another ring, a plain gold band. At the time he had thought it odd why someone called Joshua Reynolds would have a ring with the letters MH on it.


	29. Chapter 29

John Watson sat in the waiting room looking at the arrivals board. It was busy. And congested. There had been a train crash somewhere or other which had caused delays. Next to him a nervous sixteen year old was fidgeting in his seat and looking up expectantly at the door way. John placed a comforting hand on his young friend's shoulder.

"Do I look okay?" The boy brushed his hair off of his forehead. It immediately fell back down.

"Yeah. You look fine. It will all be okay."

"But what if it isn't? What do I do then? What if he's forgotten?"

"He won't have forgotten." Sherlock appeared suddenly behind them, making John nearly leap out of his skin. He'd been doing that a lot recently. Sherlock handed the boy a can of Coke and patted him on the top of his head.

"I wished you'd stop doing that Sherlock. It's still kind of weird."

"I can't help it. You're adorable."

"Shut up." The boy sipped his drink. Sherlock slid into the seat next to him. Sometimes John thought the attention he gave their young friend was slightly inappropriate. But then it was an odd situation. "I'm just going to the bathroom. I feel sick."

"Do you want me to come with you?" John thought the kid did look a bit green.

"No. Thanks." He smiled half heartedly and made his way to the bathroom.

John looked at Sherlock.

"I hope this works out. He's going to be gutted if it doesn't."

"I know. I've never wanted to be correct in my deductions more than I do at this moment." Sherlock looked down at the toes of his shoes. There was a whistle from the platform outside.

"It's time." The boy came hurrying from the bathroom, his hands still wet from washing them, and the three made their way on to the platform.

The train always reminded John of the Hogwart's Express. All steam and shiny red paint. The platform was fogged and the people disembarking were shrouded in the smoke. He could hear the usual cries of excitement and joy as loved ones were reunited, families made whole again.

It was Sherlock, of course, that saw him first. One of the last to climb down onto the platform. Looking around confused for a moment. Uncertain he was in the right place. A bony elbow nudged John in the side and the Doctor followed the silver gaze. Whatever John had been expecting, it really wasn't that. The boy who was standing on the platform was another sixteen year old. Tall and skinny, his coppery red hair shining in the light, the bright blue eyes taking in the surroundings. The tall boy was carrying an umbrella in one hand and a soft toy Giraffe in the other.

"Mycroft!" Nicholas was off like a shot down the platform, throwing himself at the taller boy.

"Nick?" The Umbrella clattered to the floor and the Giraffe was squashed between them.

"You chose me?" The green eyes were filling with tears.

"Of course I chose you." The blue eyes were doing the same.

John and Sherlock held back a little watching as Mycroft kissed Nicholas trying to make up for all the years apart. As Nicholas held on to Mycroft so tightly, almost scared to let him go again. The two young bodies pressed together.

"Teenagers!" Sherlock tutted.

"Yeah. You do realise you are now older than your big brother?"

"Oh yes." Sherlock smiled. Rather evilly for someone who was wandering around paradise, John thought. "I always said Nick was an excellent influence on Mycroft."

John looked at Mycroft's face. There was no trace of the serious and troubled man John had known in life. Only a young boy who looked as though he had got everything he'd ever wished for in one go. John had to agree: Nick was an excellent influence on Mycroft.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock watched as his younger big brother (and that was really taking some getting used to) sat at the table eating Sugar Puffs and reading his own obituary in The Times. Naturally Mycroft had taken to being dead quite well. Sherlock had made a remark about how little effort being dead took and how that would appeal to Mycroft's lazy nature. The lanky teenager had given Sherlock a contemptuous look and a "Yeah Whatever." Beside him, on his fourth bowl of Frosties, Nick was snorting at the glaring inaccuracies contained in the short resume of Mycroft's life. Under the headline : **Minor Government Official Dies Aged 87.**

_Mycroft Wellington Fortinbras Holmes has died at the age of 87 after a short illness..._

"Your middle name is Fortinbras? What the hell were your parents smoking?" Nick had just inhaled his cereal and was spluttering milk everywhere. Mycroft looked at him coolly.

"Why don't you ask them yourself? They're coming for a visit later. And if you think mine's bad, Sherlock's middle name is..."

"Don't you dare. Or you can just... go to your room." Sherlock was not having that.

"You can't send me to my room. I'm 87! "

"Not from where I'm standing. You haven't even finished puberty."

"Did you ever start it? Sherlock Caligula N..."

"Room. Now. Mister! You're grounded. For the rest of your life."

"You can't ground me for the rest of my life, I'm dead. And also I am your elder brother."

"Says who?" Teenage Mycroft was rather trying Sherlock's patience.

"I read it in The Times. It must be true."

"Were you always this much of a smart arse?"

"Yes, but no one noticed. Your smart-arsery eclipsed anything I could ever do." Mycroft scowled at the newspaper. Just as John put in an appearance, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Morning! How are we all?"

"Still dead." Mycroft didn't look up.

"Still babysitting my big brother. Am I going to have to do this for the rest of eternity? Is this hell? Am I being punished? "

"Yes. It's God's revenge for the absolute turd you were to me for 79 years."

"So you are finally acknowledging that there is a higher power than you?"

"Right. Nick, why don't you go and show Mycroft the orchard? And Sherlock and I will have a little talk." John seemed to be far better at parenting than Sherlock. Nick nodded happily and dragged a reluctant Mycroft outside. It seemed he'd missed the arguments with his brother.

"How come they do what you say? And why is Mycroft still 16? And if he has all his adult memories why is he acting as though he's 16?"

"Give the poor boy a chance."

"He's not a boy. Up until 7.38 am yesterday he was a fat grumpy old man with arthritic knees. And I don't see why I should have sympathy. Did you hear those two last night? It's obscene. Although I must say I find it remarkable that Mycroft had a functioning pair of testicles at that age."

"Sherlock. Enough. They got to pick up where they left off. That's what this is about. I know it was different for us. But think about it. When I was waiting for you to get off of the train I was expecting an old man. And then you got off looking just like you did the day I met you. And it was perfect. So maybe this is perfect for them?"

"I wonder what Marcus is going to say about all this?"

"Well he made his choice. And I know it was a hard one. But it all turned out okay. Hey, why don't we invite him and Matthew for tea?"

"Won't that be weird?"

"More weird than Kevin and Perry out there?" Through the window John could see Mycroft and Nick., now joined by a large fluffy black dog who was bouncing excitedly around their knees.

"I do see your point John. " Sherlock gazed out of the window. Watching as his brother threw his head back laughing at something Nick said. Sherlock knew it was how it should be. That Mycroft had chosen to be with Nick. The only choice really. But still Sherlock was a little jealous that Mycroft hadn't chosen him.


	31. Chapter 31

Mycroft didn't really mind being sixteen again. Not really. Towards the end he'd become rather fed up of his creaky knees and expanding waistline. But if he were being truthful he'd actually forgotten what a geeky thing he had been at sixteen. He'd been far more physically awkward at that age than Sherlock. Sherlock of course had never succumbed to acne, neither had he gone through that awkward stage where feet and hands and limbs all seemed to be growing at different rates. Not like Mycroft. Nicholas was right. He did look like a Giraffe.

Mycroft had never been vain. Not that anyone would believe that, with the amount of money he used to spend on clothes. But Mycroft had never been particularly pleased with the way he looked. And being forced to spend all eternity as his scrawny sixteen year old self with his spotty shoulders and big feet was rather annoying. Especially as Sherlock got to swan around looking beautiful. Perhaps even in heaven there was some kind of punishment?

Yes definitely punishment. When he opened the door to his wardrobe he found it was filled with casual clothing. There wasn't even so much as a School Bluer in there. He was supposed to be having tea with Mrs. Hudson later. How could he have tea with Mrs Hudson wearing Jeans and a t-shirt?

He felt thoroughly miserable as he sat at the breakfast table, half-heartedly pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. He knew Sherlock was enjoying his misery. He could see him smirking, you could see the smirk right through the back of his head.

"Are you all right Mycroft?" Even John Watson was treating him like a child. Two days ago he was the most feared man in the world. When they buried him they'd probably drive a stake through his heart just to make sure he was dead. And now? John Watson was spreading butter on his toast for him.

"Yes. Thank you Doctor Watson I'm fine." Mycroft's voice had broken when he was twelve, but he still had the occasional squeaky moment. He missed the mellifluous tones of his proper adult voice as well. John poured Mycroft a glass of milk and heaped four slices of toast onto his plate. Mycroft thought about protesting, but then realised he really was _that_ hungry. He just hoped John didn't make a move to ruffle his hair.

And that was another thing. His hair. He never remembered it being quite so, well _Ginger _really_. _And he was sure it had never been such an unruly mop of curls. He sighed and began to crunch his way through the toast mountain.

"Morning!" Nick bounced into the kitchen, damp from the shower and wearing nothing but Mycroft's fluffy blue dressing gown. He sat down next to Mycroft and stole a slice of toast. Somehow Nick looked different. Something Mycroft couldn't quite put his finger on.

A further three slices of toast and two bowls of cereal later, Mycroft supposed he should stop eating. Although he was still a bit hungry. He stood up and noticed there seemed to be considerably more sock on show between the bottom of his jeans and the beginning of his trainers. He decided he should go and change.

"Is he getting taller?" John asked no one in general once Mycroft was out of earshot. Nick smiled around a mouthful of toast and nodded.

"Oh this is going to be fun." Sherlock turned around. He had an evil smirk on his face.


End file.
